


Escaping Memories

by shirleyholmes



Series: Tumblr Mini-fics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Grief/Mourning, John Watson POV, Moving On, One Shot, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:12:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders how long one person can go on, dying by inches every day. A little bit of his life, seeping away every time he looks up and Sherlock isn’t there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escaping Memories

At first, he thinks that it's when he forgets that it hurts the most. When he makes an extra cup of tea or turns over for an opinion on a crossword. Sends a text to a number that went dead months ago 'Hey Sherlock, don’t forget the milk'— and laughs at a joke that’s remembered, not told.

No, actually, those aren’t the worst moments. Those little stolen bits of time, when Sherlock’s still with him, are fine, just fine, not beautiful or extraordinary, but the only moments in which he regains a piece of the man he was. For a second, John thinks he still has somebody to go home to, a mad genius to love and protect, but then he remembers. And it’s the remembering that does him in. Brutally, inevitably, he remembers, and each time, it breaks him a little more.

He wonders how long one person can go on, dying by inches every day. A little bit of his life, seeping away every time he looks up and Sherlock isn’t there.

And then, just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, the moments become more infrequent and, to his surprise, that hurts even more.

Because John doesn’t want to forget, not even the little details. Even if it kills him, he wants to remember Sherlock sulking on the couch, tapping the silverware incessantly at a restaurant, tearing the flat apart for a cigarette. He wants to remember the tight grip of slim fingers, the texture of silky hair, the flashing of changeling eyes. The quirk of his lips, whenever John told him he was brilliant, because he was, wasn’t he, he was brilliant and god, John loved him. 

It would be less painful, maybe if John could let go. If he could forget everything Sherlock was and everything they had. Let the stolen moments drift away, exchange them for some peace. 

But he can’t.

Not because he’s incapable. 

No.

John can’t forget.

Because there has to be someone left who remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> Crit and comments loved as always. Sorry for all the drabbles, they're my mental break in between studying.


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